


blacker than blue

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Classism, Community: snapecase, Death Eaters, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29398095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Twenty years old, and in over his head.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	blacker than blue

**Author's Note:**

> written for the latest round of [snapecase](https://snapecase.livejournal.com/) and originally posted [here](https://snapecase.livejournal.com/99174.html) \-- hope you enjoy!

Hunting, Mulciber calls it. Proposed in his gruff drawl, smile almost seductive. Severus knows, even if some of the others don’t, what it really means. He remains indifferent as a chorus of approval rings through the room, and takes a drag of Avery’s cigarette to hide it. Through the smoke, he catches sight of the look in Mulciber’s eye, the flash of teeth. Sharp, anticipatory. Destructive.

It’s an expression he’s come to learn well over the years.

On his way out the door, Severus overhears a new recruit turn to his older brother, voice low as he asks what exactly it is that they’re hunting. He still remembers when that was him: misguided and newly marked, naïve. In his head, a quiet flicker of a voice deems it the Good Old Days.

The older boy shifts on his feet, and from the corner of his eye, Severus catches the barely contained grimace. “You’ll see,” is all he says.

Severus knows it’s the best answer he’s capable of giving.

He doesn’t catch the new recruit’s response; it gets drowned out as Mulciber gives his command, the lot of them disappearing with a crack. It’s no surprise when they reappear in the East End. Here, the streets are cracked, the gutters filled with grime and grit. Here, they can act under the guise of ridding London of its filth. Under the guise of honour, their actions filed as mere necessities in the war to achieve Voldemort’s vision.

Severus sticks to the shadows as he follows his friend’s lead. Tension keeps his spine straight, a learned precaution narrowing his eyes, his wand always within reach, at the ready. He trusts Muggles as much as he trusts the men beside him, which is to say he doesn’t trust any of them at all. How can he, he reasons, when their contempt is obvious, their privilege seeping through their sneers and scrunched faces.

They’ve forgotten where he came from, Severus thinks. Forgotten what he did to claw his way out of streets that look just as bad, if not worse, than these. That, or this is a mere reminder of where he stands: With them, but not _with_ them. By now, he’s used to it. Should be. The Dark Lord’s ranks are filled with those who were born great, those who were raised on tales of superiority, those who were fed lies about their importance, their invincibility. Severus’ life has not known such luck; he holds no such delusions.

He is not—has never been—a fool.

The same cannot be said for everyone.

“Look at that one,” the new recruit laughs, finger shamelessly pointed toward an older man sat on a side bench, his back hunched, clothes tattered. The others snicker, and the new recruit grows bold at the validation. Severus wonders if the younger boy understands what it is they’re hunting for, yet.

If he doesn’t, he will soon. Mulciber latches onto the suggestion; Severus can see the moment he makes the definitive decision. His head tilts, body still for a second: assessing. He approaches slowly, a silent predator closing in on its prey. By the time the man notices, it’s already too late.

 _That One_ turns out to be an off-duty dock worker, who has three children at home and an expecting wife for good measure. He tells them so as he begs for his life, eyes wide and earnest as if he were speaking to men who cared about that sort of thing, or even understood its meaning. Severus joins the others in their derisive snorts, and watches as the man’s futile pleas are silenced by Avery’s fist.

A spell follows, and then another, and then one after that. In the dying light, half-hidden behind an abandoned building, they’re the only ones present to watch as _That One_ writhes, wiggles, wails. Thanks to Severus’ creation, they’re the only ones who hear his guttural cries, too, each scream somehow worse than the one before it. Even as they take turns, the man doesn’t give up his struggle against the assault, against the _pain._ He scrambles on the floor, limbs twisting under the effects of the Cruciatus, his fingertips bloody from where his hands grapple at the ground, body desperate for something to hold onto, to ground itself with. Severus knows it’s futile.

Like most of the others, he’s spent his fair share of time in the man’s place. They all know there’s nothing capable of easing that kind of ache.

It’s not until the man is a bleeding, sobbing, semi-conscious mess that Mulciber moves to stand behind him. With Avery’s help, he holds him up, head peeking over the man’s left shoulder as he looks toward the new recruit. “You do it,” he says, the order harsh as he breathes heavily. Excitement or exhaustion, Severus can’t say.

The kid hesitates for only a second. Refusing isn’t an option and he knows it—they all do. Most of them have been through this before, have already had to prove themselves. When it was his turn, Severus had thought it easy: Rabastan had held a man down and Lucius had nudged him forward, no further prompting necessary when he’d been the third to do it in as many hours. He hadn’t opted for the Killing Curse, like most of the others had; instead, when the time came, he hissed the word _Sectumsempra_ and watched as his victim—another nameless man plucked from the streets of Muggle London—was split open, blood pouring out in a macabre display that’d helped advance his place in the Dark Lord’s ranks. At the time, he’d been high on adrenaline and heady with his own power. It wasn’t until later that he’d felt something inside himself shift.

Now, he looks at the new recruit and sees a reflection of his younger self in the kid’s enthusiasm. Either he’s not yet fully aware of what he’s got himself into, or he takes after the likes of Mulciber and delights in it. Severus doesn’t care much for whatever the answer is; it’s inconsequential. They’re here now, marked and burdened with duty. The chance to turn back has passed.

As the kid raises his wand, it’s not the man Severus watches, but the recruit’s older brother. The lack of a reaction to the annihilation of his sibling’s soul only proves his point.


End file.
